


Human

by TheReichenbachFail (GYPAFY)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Sherlock - Freeform, TW: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:30:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GYPAFY/pseuds/TheReichenbachFail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So John hated him. That was fine. That was natural. Sherlock's life would go on. </p><p>So why was he beginning to feel nauseous?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any typos, I don't have a beta. (If anyone would be interested in being my beta please comment!)
> 
> Recommended listening: Human by Christina Perri. It's a great song, it inspired me to write this, and it goes well with this fic.

Sherlock walked into the flat, blinking in the darkness. The room was pretty much the same as it was two years ago. Other than the experiment free table and the layer of dust covering the majority of the room, it was exactly the same. 

He had given Ms. Hudson a bit of a scare when he came in, but she understood. He was Sherlock Holmes. He could pretend to be dead for two years and come back like everything was the same. It was fine. It was just his nature. Ms. Hudson had been happy. Lestrade had been happy. Why was John so angry?

Sherlock sat on his chair, fingers steepled under his chin as he pondered the issue. Everyone that knew Sherlock had seemed overjoyed. Yet, John, his only real friend, had been angry. He even punched Sherlock, something he had only done once before, and that was after Sherlock had provoked him.

Through the years he had been gone, did John's friendship turn to contempt? Did John hate him? 

Sherlock searched his mind for other possibilities, but nothing seemed to fit. After all, friends often turned bitter after years of companionship. It was definitely possible that pretending to die had only sped up that process for John. 

So John hated him. That was fine. That was natural. Sherlock's life would go on. 

So why was he beginning to feel nauseous?

Sherlock observed the area around him, taking in the pitch black cloaking his vision. The darkness in the room was usually a comfort, but something had changed. Rather than surrounding Sherlock like a blanket, it grabbed his neck, squeezing the air out of his lungs, and made him feel rather small.

Sherlock didn't like this.

He tried to focus. Why did it feel like the walls were trapping him? Why was his face heating up?  
But his mind kept switching back to John. John, John, John. 

And suddenly, it felt like a dagger was going straight through his heart. He panicked, brushing his hands over his chest. There was no wound to be found, but he felt it. He definitely felt it. Why did he feel it?

John. John hated him.

The pain moved down, down, and he felt his heart sink down with it. 

But it was biologically impossible for his heart to-

Sherlock just needed to calm himself. Occupy his mind with something else. 

He stood up, surprised that he had to balance himself before moving toward the shower. As he walked, he tried to focus on little things, making simple deductions about objects in the room. The rug under his feet had been hand sewn in China about 17 years ago. The mirror above the fireplace had been polished 4 times. It took approximately 27 steps to get from the chair to the bathroom.

The pain in his heart still stung. Thoughts of John still haunted him. John hated him.

Sherlock removed his shirt, watching his reflection. There was no wound. But he felt the pain. Stinging harshly into him, right above his heart. He ignored it, quietly whispering, "Control," and stepping into the warm water.

The water didn't help. Each droplet was another dagger, piercing his back, his arms, his legs. 

Sherlock was terrified. This wasn't normal. He wasn't in control. He needed to be in control. 

He sat, the water still pouring down, destroying the carefully built walls around him. 

This wasn't good. This wasn't normal. This needed to stop.

Sherlock looked frantically around him, searching for anything, anything, to end this. His eyes landed on a small kitchen knife. Why was it there? Probably some experiment. That didn't matter. The knife was there. The knife was good. The knife was going to stop this, this feeling, that was destroying him from the inside out.

He grabbed it, and pulled it into the shower with him, not thinking before slashing a small cut into his palm. It stung, but not worse than his chest, not worse than his head, not worse than his heart.

He watched the blood as it seeped out of him, dripping onto the shower floor and washing away with the water. He saw the blood rush down the drain, but he still felt so much pain inside of him. He needed to get it out. He needed to get it out.

He raised the knife again, and pushed it deep into his wrist, dragging it down until he reached his elbow. He switched hands, digging the knife into his other wrist, pushing it downward, watching as the blood dripped from one arm onto the other, and was swept to the ground by the forceful water.

He collapsed to the shower floor, only now recognizing the burning in his eyes as tears. He brought his hands up to cover his face, feeling the tears collect in his cuts. Why wasn't this stoping? Why wasn't this stopping!

Sherlock continued to sob into his hands, waiting for it stop. Because it had to stop. 

And it did. It stopped as Sherlock's world grew fuzzy around the edges. But no blurriness was going to stop Sherlock Holmes!

He stumbled out of the shower, tripping multiple times, as he walked back to his chair. Why had he been so sad again?

Sherlock tried to sit onto his chair, missing it by about a foot. He soon started to giggle at his own mishap, not bothering to move from his spot on the floor. 

He was completely unaware that it wasn't considered normal to sit stark naked in the middle of his flat, blood gushing from his arms. 

He did, however, notice that someone was opening the door. 

John stepped in, not seeing Sherlock as he scanned the room.

"Sherlock, I know it's late, but I know you're up. I just wanted to ap-"

"JOHN WATSON!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing the doctors attention. He pushed him self to a standing position, but quickly fell due to the shaking in his legs.

"Ouch," Sherlock proclaimed, rubbing at his back.

"Holy fuck!" John yelled, rushing over to Sherlock and taking out his phone to call an ambulance. "What did you do?"

Sherlock pondered the question with a hazy mind. What had he done? Eh, it didn't matter. But the arm he was using to support himself kind of hurt. Maybe he should just lay down…

"Sherlock!" John yelled as his friend fell backwards, knocking his head on the floor before John had the time to catch him. Sherlock started giggling.

"I missed you so much John Watson," he whispered, and then his vision went black.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks For Reading!
> 
> I might add a second chapter if people want a happy ending.
> 
> COMMENTS FEED ME.


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